


longing (out that open window)

by trevino



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: (except probably not really), Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:01:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26924020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trevino/pseuds/trevino
Summary: Billy and Steve start as enemies. Well, they start as strangers, and quickly become enemies all the same.It doesn't last, though.And nothing really lasts in Billy's life, but this is one thing he's glad to let go of.Because if there's hope for him after all, it may just exist within Steve Harrington.(or, how two people full of darkness and despair find each other in the light)
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Jonathan Byers/Nancy Wheeler
Comments: 14
Kudos: 36





	1. chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> hello! this is my first foray into the stranger things fandom, but this fic's been bouncing around in my head for a while and i think it's time to finally start writing it. 
> 
> i hope you enjoy! i love comments and feedback, so i'd love to hear from you!
> 
> (title is from "darkness" by pinegrove)

Billy and Steve are like magnets, polar opposites that can’t quite seem to coexist in each other’s magnetic fields. 

It’s what sparks so many of their fights— the bitter words tossed at each other in the parking lot or the crashing of fists together at the Byers’ house, in the locker room, in the hallways of Hawkins High. 

They couldn’t ever be friends, not really, but enemies didn’t work so well for them either. So they settle into a semi-comfortable middle ground, existing in each other’s realities but never quite feeling like they belong there. Two magnets that never quite click together.

Funny thing about magnets, though?

With enough electricity, sometimes— if you’re lucky, and the sparks fly just right— the polarity shifts, and what was once an impossibility comes true in the blink of an eye. 

And when it happens, when these two diametrically-opposed souls meet, in just the right moment, nothing will ever be the same.

~

Billy arrives in Hawkins, Indiana, and already, it feels like the town isn’t quite big enough for him. Like the seams might split apart at any moment. He’ll joke that it’s his ego, or his dick, that makes him feel like he’s bigger than anything this tiny podunk town can handle.

Perhaps, though, it’s the weight of his own secrets, coursing through his veins at every turn, that causes a feeling of incongruity that he can’t quite shake.

So instead, he does what he knows best— what his father taught him, and damn he wishes Neil’s lessons didn’t linger under his skin as painfully as the bruises atop it, but there’s not much he can do about that now— and puffs his chest up and pretends.

Pretends to be brave— no, not brave, because bravery wouldn’t make him scream at his step-sister or threaten her friends. Maybe it’s just bravado, as false as everything else about the “new Billy” he presents to his newfound friends.

Pretends to enjoy the company of Tommy H. and Carol, though their vapid insistence on spending every night partying and causing some sort of destruction to an already struggling downtown scene wears heavy on him.

Pretends to savor the spotlight, and not care that his popularity came at the expense of Steve Harrington’s social downfall. Harrington’s not that bad, not _really_ , but Billy’s all too good at sensing weakness (he learned that from himself, and his mother cowering in the bathroom from his father so many years ago) and he can’t help but relish in it, even if it means swallowing down guilt every time they pass each other in the hallway or spar on the basketball court. 

Pretends to not care, when Max pushes him away more often than not, and he can hear her sharing secrets in her bedroom through the walls. He knows he’s not exactly an “ideal step-brother,” but God damn it, he wishes that for once he didn’t feel like an outsider in his own home. At least, not with Max— he’s stopped caring about what Neil thought about him years ago.

Well…

  
He fakes that too, because even though he hates the man, despises how he’s learned his anger from his father the way a baby bird learns to fly by watching its mother, he’d still give anything to have some semblance of normality. Like before his mother died. The anger was still there, in barely-veiled threats and hands slammed down on kitchen tables, but it didn’t hurt quite the way it does now, when _Billy’s_ the one pushed around instead of furniture scuffing up the floor.

So he pretends.

And it works, until it doesn’t.

Because when he finds himself bleeding, bruised, and (for lack of a better word) broken on the floor of some crazy lady’s house, surrounded by drawings that make his skin chill when he looks at them, and he’s all alone, flashbacks of the fight with Harrington (one he didn’t even want to _have_ , for fuck’s sake, but the fight with his dad and a whole hell of a lot of misplaced anger got the better of him)—

It’s starting to feel like pretending is causing him more pain than salvation, lately.

~

Steve is finally starting to feel like he has a better grip on the world now.

Sure, he lost Nancy— is it possible to lose something that never quite felt secure to begin with?— but he’s gained an entire pack of friends (and they’re middle schoolers, yeah, but they look at him like he hung the moon and that’s a pretty sweet feeling), and he’s discovered how incomprehensibly strange his town is after nearly seventeen years of living there, so things are beginning to even out in his favor.

That’s a weird thought, since he’s come face to face with danger far too many times for his liking in the past few months, but at the same time, as bizarre as it is, knowing that there really _are_ supernatural entities kind of makes sense at this point.

It’s not like anything surprises him anymore, at least.

Except, that’s not really true, is it?

He doesn’t expect to become an (unpaid, thank you very much) babysitter to some of the most talkative kids on the planet. And he doesn’t expect to like it so much, either. But he adapts. He’s good at that.

But the thing that really hits him is the realization, even though his status as “King Steve” has been nearly exterminated, and eventually replaced, by the introduction of Billy Hargrove into the Hawkins High ecosystem, he’s not even sure he minds it too much.

Once you’ve peered into the pits of hell, and felt it staring back at you, it’s really hard to care about anything trivial.

So life goes on. He’s not “King Steve” anymore, and he doesn’t have the prettiest girl wrapped around his arm anymore, but he has something new, and that’s the trust of six middle school-age kids, and he might like that even better.

Well, he would, if Billy Hargrove wasn’t such a fucking asshole about it.

It starts off as just being annoying, taunts in the hallways and a shove that makes him miss his final free throw in an after-school basketball practice. That stuff just sort of rolls off him nowadays.

And it’d be okay if it stayed that way, but it doesn’t.

Because Billy— well, Billy’s a menace, a jerk, an insert-any-insult-here-and-it’ll-probably-work kind of guy.

Steve’s not altogether surprised, then, when it culminates in an all-out brawl in Will Byers’ living room. He feels bad about it (at least, in terms of the property damage and relative destruction that it causes for Joyce), of course, but he’s far from shocked. It’s a rough fight, too, one that doesn’t feel like it’ll ever let up, and he doubts he’ll ever forget the maniacal look on the guy’s face as he landed punch after punch into Steve’s jaw.

But he’ll probably never forget how _fucking_ great it was to watch Max (little Maxine, her red hair a visual representation of the untamed fire burning within such a small form) shove a tranquilizer needle into her prick of a stepbrother’s neck.

Yeah, that’ll be a good memory, amidst all the bad.

Somehow, though, the fight seems to close a chapter on the never-ending feud between Steve and Billy. The scars remain, as does the throbbing pain along Steve’s collarbone, but strangely (and damn, he’s really gotta stop using that word, because nothing can really be considered strange once you’ve seen the things he’s seen), as the wounds heal, so do the rifts in his friendship— if you could call it that, but there’s not really a word for the dynamic between the two of them— with Billy.

So when, on Monday, after far too much excitement and danger for a weekend with the Party, Billy almost smiles at him across the hallway, he’s not really sure what to think.

He’ll take it, though. He has enough enemies, both human and other-worldly, and it’s almost nice, the way he feels when Billy looks at him with something other than abject disdain. 

After all, Billy walks around Hawkins High like the universe revolves around him.

And Steve doesn’t understand this part of himself, pushes it down somewhere between his (still bruised, thanks to their unpleasant encounter with the demo-dogs two nights ago) ribs, but he’s starting to think it might be pretty great to allow himself to drift along, captivated by Billy’s impossible gravitational pull.

Really, after the things he’s experienced lately, a crush on a guy really doesn’t phase him the way it might’ve a year ago.

~

This “new normal,” as Steve’s starting to refer to it in his head, doesn’t really modify all that much between him and Billy.

But at the same time, it changes _everything_. 

Because when Billy mocks him, calling him a “pretty boy” or something of the sort in the locker room, it doesn’t seem like much of an insult as it used to. There’s no weight behind his normally biting words. (Steve’s started tossing back names of his own, but “asshat” is starting to sound more affectionate than aggressive out of his own mouth, and he’s not sure if it’s intentional or not.)

When Billy drops Max off at the arcade, Steve can’t hear them fighting in the front seats of the Camaro anymore, and he’s come to expect a wave, even a half-assed one as the car peels out of the parking lot, as Billy drives away.

And when Billy tugs at his hair on defense during basketball, he’s starting to like the feeling.

So nothing’s _changed_ , not really. Everything that happened before the fight-to-end-all-fights still happens now, in the “after.” It’s just that the motives behind every action, every word, every joke, seem to be completely transformed.

Steve thinks he’s starting to like this “new normal.”

(He’s not certain if that’s a good thing or not, and Nancy would probably have a few choice words on the matter, but he’s learning to not take all of her statements to heart quite as much as he did when he pined over her, when she and Jonathan first got together and he felt the betrayal like a punch to the gut. She has good intentions, yes, but it’s hard to feel like she’s the voice of reason after everything.)

Well, he’d probably like it more if he and Billy would actually _talk_ to each other about the fight, the one that’s been the catalyst for this new dynamic.

But they don’t. 

They joke around, not quite as friends but certainly not as enemies anymore either, and he’s starting to see a side of Billy that, frankly, he didn’t think existed. The side of him that’s not so jaded, not so bitter about being transplanted from sunny California to the (literal, if we’re being honest) hellhole of Hawkins, Indiana. The side of him that, if the world was different and Steve could confront the beat- beat- beating of his heart when they get too close, might make Steve want to shut him up by kissing him.

(That won’t happen, though, no way. Plus, he doesn’t even want that, not really, right? It’s just, uh, trauma bonding? Or something? Billy did experience some of the Hawkins weirdness too, so maybe it’s just that. Nope, nothing more.)

It’d just be a whole hell of a lot easier to feel like he and Billy are on stable ground, in this “new normal,” if they could finally talk about what it was that brought them there.

So, Steve takes a page out of Joyce Byers’ book— because that woman is small, yes, but damn if she isn’t a total badmouth badass too— and, in the near-empty locker room after practice on a Tuesday night, opens his mouth as he turns to Billy, and says:

“You, me, diner out near Cartersville? Twenty minutes from now? We need to talk, man.”

He’s not altogether surprised when Billy looks back at him with a look of pure confusion, the words Steve said filtering through the ever-turning wheels in his brain. (Because Billy’s pretty fucking smart, as Steve’s learned lately, even though he hides it behind cologne, shining silver jewelry, and perfectly-styled hair that makes even him jealous.)

“Capiche?”

Steve prompts him for an answer, shouldering his backpack as he turns to make eye contact. Billy, meanwhile, is doing everything he can to avoid his gaze, and he wonders if Billy’s as afraid that Steve’s planning another brawl as Steve was the first time Billy threw a punch.

( _But,_ Steve reminds himself, _that’s ridiculous. I’m not threatening at all, least of all to him_. And it’s not entirely true, since Steve was the uncontested King of this high school for far too long, but in this duo, he’s not exactly the dominant one, as recent history would prove.)

“Uh, yeah, Harrington, whatever, see you there.” With that, Billy slams his locker closed and exits the locker room. His movements are stuttered, like he’s unsteady, but he didn’t quite expect Steve’s proposition, but it’s not _bad_. Just different.

And really, that’s as good as Steve can hope for, and he can’t think about it too much, since the diner’s actually a bit of a drive away, and he doesn’t want to be late to a meet-up that _he planned_ , because how fucking awkward would that be?

He gets in his car, presses “Play” on the cassette track that’s lived in his car for the past two weeks— it’s a mixtape that Jonathan helped him make, with some REO Speedwagon, and The Psychedelic Furs, and he likes it way more than he’d care to admit— and books it to the diner.

When he arrives, of course, Billy’s beaten him there.

That’s just sort of what happens, though; Billy’s not all too observant of speed limits, or caution, or anything of the sort.

So Steve puts his car in park, gives his hair a once-over (okay, a _twice-over_ , but who’s counting?) in the mirror, and, trying to ignore the wobbly feeling that’s made its way to his legs, walks straight to the corner booth, where Billy’s waiting for him.

~

“Yo,” Steve says as he sits down, and Billy nods as a non-greeting. “You ordered yet?”

Billy looks up at him, a hint of a smile as he answers— Steve’s not expecting that, but it’s not an unwelcome surprise, either. He seems to be full of those nowadays, after the fight. “Yea, princess, a Coke for each of us and some fries, if you don’t mind sharing with ‘big bad Billy Hargrove’ or whatever.” His words are biting, but his tone is harmless.

“Sounds good,” Steve says, and it’s incredibly obvious how fake-chipper he’s being, but Billy doesn’t seem too phased.

They sit in relative silence, Steve worrying at the edge of the peeling laminate table with his dirty fingernails as they wait for their food to arrive. 

When it does, he’s grateful for the distraction. He’s the one that suggested they meet up, however, and he knows he can’t wait too long before Billy gets suspicious— well, more so than usual. It’s just sort of his baseline. 

“You gonna talk, or what, pretty boy?” Billy asks around a mouthful of fries, ketchup staining his barely-healed split lip. Steve is surprised at himself, but he almost considers (temporarily, just for a moment, a fleeting thought that barely even existed in the first place) wiping it away with his finger. Instead, he ignores it. His brain’s too caught up on the fact that Billy called him “princess” not even ten minutes ago, and “pretty boy” just now, and that neither teasing nickname were said with any semblance of animosity.

“Uh, yeah,” Stever responds. “Not that, uh, I’m grateful you’re not kicking my teeth in at every opportunity or anything, Hargrove, but what gives? You kinda beat the shit out of me two weeks ago, and now you’re just… nice?”

Billy chokes, at that— apparently, that’s not what he was expecting when he agreed to meet Steve at this shitty little diner, in the middle of nowhere (and that’s saying something, since this town they’re in now is even tinier than Hawkins). 

“First of all, Harrington, I’m not fucking _nice_ ,” he scowls back, and _there’s_ the Billy Hargrove that Steve is used to, the one with fire and fury in every word, but it fades pretty quickly. “And are you fuckin’ serious? You pissy that I’m being polite, cordial, whatever— to you?”

Steve ponders that for a moment, and almost misses Billy’s mumbled statement while he sips at his Coke through the bendy straw.

“I thought you’d, uh, like that I wasn’t such an asshole anymore.”

Less than a moment later, Billy’s hung his head, fingers wrapped so tightly around his glass soda bottle that Steve’s worried it’ll shatter in his grasp.

“Jesus, Billy,” Steve says after a pause, barely acknowledging his rare usage of the older boy’s first name. “It’s not that I don’t _like_ it, dude. I’m just in the habit of waiting for the other shoe to drop, y’know? I keep a bat in my car for a reason.”

That at least gets a rise out of Billy, whose laughter spills out of him with a lightness that surprises both boys. 

“Yeah, Harrington, I know, it’s got fucking nails wedged into it and everything, couldn’t forget about it if I tried. Kinda hard, when my step-sister’s aiming it at the jewels.”

“Okay, asshat, I get it, you’re tough shit, whatever,” Steve chuckles too. “Sorry, for dragging you out here then? Just wanted to make sure I was out of the Party’s earshot if you decided to turn this into another punching match.”

Those words hang heavy too, and he’s not exactly expecting a reply from Billy to that. After all, Steve’s not having the best time with his word choice this afternoon, and though he and Billy aren’t at each other’s throats (and that sentence certainly conjures up some _different_ mental images, Christ, Steve’s really fucking glad Billy doesn’t notice the blush tinting his cheeks right now), he’s not keen on pushing his luck.

“No, not really in the mood to fuck up that pretty face tonight,” Billy says with a glint of passion in his eye, and Steve nearly misses it as he looks away. (He’s really glad he didn’t though.) “This is, uh, nice or whatever— as long as you’re getting the bill, Harrington.”

Yep, it’s nice to see that Hargrove hasn’t changed _too_ much, at least. Steve’s surprised with himself, but he’s actually kind of enjoying the teen’s vicious wordplay lately. 

“Whatever, Hargrove, just take it as a peace offering or whatever and say fucking thank you, man,” Steve bites back. 

“Peace offering? Damn, didn’t realize I was a fucking force you had to reconcile with,” Billy grins, stealing the last of the fries off the plate.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Nice try, Harrington,” Billy says. “But yeah. I’ll take the truce and call it even.”

(And it’s not _remotely_ even, because Christ, Billy nearly dislocated his shoulder two weeks ago, but Steve is a weaker man than he wants to be, and he’s just savoring this moment, in this place where no one knows their names.)

So they leave it at that, and Steve begrudgingly tosses enough money to cover their bill and a decently generous tip as they both exit the diner, Billy heading to his Camaro across the parking lot.

“See you at school, Hargrove, you big softie,” Steve calls, knowing he’s playing with fire here, tempting the already-precarious balance that’s only recently formed between them. 

Billy flicks him off, gets in his car, and speeds away, and Steve’s left there, leaning up against his Beemer with a smile on his face that he just can’t wipe away.

He’s playing with fire, and yet somehow, he can’t help but wonder what it’d feel like to be burned by Billy Hargrove. 


	2. chapter two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things are changing, slowly and all at once at the same time. 
> 
> steve's been having weird dreams, and they're not plagued by visions of the upside down and will's all-too-cold body in that place, but they're not what he expected either.
> 
> and billy?
> 
> he's just living through a nightmare, and trying to survive it all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!!   
> first, thank you SO much to those of you who read chapter one, and commented, and made me feel really really great about my first stranger things fic so far. it's been really lovely!
> 
> second, i hope you enjoy this chapter. it's not as slow burn as i expected the story to go, but i'm really liking where my brain's taking it so far, and i really hope you are too.
> 
> as always, i live for your comments and feedback!
> 
> (i can't promise my updates will be this quick all the time, but this chapter popped into my head and i wanted to post it as soon as i could)

Billy just doesn’t  _ get _ Steve Harrington, he decides when he’s back in his bedroom after their meet-up at the diner (he’s not sure what to call it, really, because it barely lasted an hour, but it definitely still happened, so it’s something), laying down with a cigarette poised carefully in between his fingers.

Really, though, how could he?

Two weeks ago, Billy beat the teen’s face in, for Christ’s sake— and he almost enjoyed it. 

Well, he  _ did _ enjoy it, too much, really, and then he didn’t all at once. 

So he can understand what changed in him, at least a little bit; because when you hit your breaking point— when your freaking brat of a step-sister has to inject you with a tranquilizer because you’re that far out of your own mind— you’re never quite the same afterwards. Even if he can’t explain it, this weird pull within his lungs that’s compelling him to treat Harrington with a little more feeling and a little less outright fury, he knows it’s there, and he knows  _ why _ .

But Steve?

Steve has every reason to hate his fucking guts, or fear him, or try and get him suspended for all the shit he’s done to him in and out of the halls of Hawkins High. Billy wouldn’t blame him, really. (And given the self-loathing kick he’s on lately, as he takes a drag that feels like it’s burning his lungs apart, he thinks he might actually deserve it.)

And yet— Steve’s making an effort, trying to comfort Billy in his own weird I’m-secretly-everybody’s-mother-and-you-look-like-a-lost-puppy kind of way, and Billy doesn’t mind?

(He’s starting to like it, too, but he’ll be damned if he admits it outside the quiet solace of his messy-as-hell bedroom.)

He knew this town would be weird when they first arrived, when the setting sun seemed to draw everyone into their houses like there was some sort of collective dark-feeding monster that no one told him about. He just didn’t think it’d be this weird, that he’d find himself actually caring about having a friend. Much less, a friend like Steve Harrington, pretty-boy extraordinaire with his pack of insufferable middle-schoolers.

They’re not, yet— friends, that is. Billy’s not blind, or stupid (no matter how often Neil screams it in his face in a drunken stupor on a school-day afternoon), and he’s seen the slight hesitation in Steve’s step every time he gets too close to him. He knows that weeks of verbal threats and very-real, very-painful physical culminations of those same threats can’t be undone by the two of them shooting the shit over a plate of fries and some nicely-chilled sodas.

No, they’re not friends, per se, but they’re the kind of people who will drive to the outskirts of town just for a private conversation, away from nosy kids and parents who’d put high-school bullies to shame, and leave with something like a smile on both their faces.

And Billy’s not one for hoping— he learned that lesson years ago, when he dreamed of parents that loved him and woke up to an abusive father and a timid step-mother (and her accompanying annoying-ass step-sister too) instead— but damn, if he’s not harboring some wishful thinking thoughts that maybe, just maybe, it’ll last.

It’d be nice if  _ something _ , anything, worked in his favor.

~

Steve returns to his all-too-empty house, throws his backpack down in the corner of the kitchen, grabs a soda from the fridge, and thinks  _ finally, I can relax _ . He wouldn’t admit it to the Party in a million years, or to Nancy or Jonathan, but he’d been on edge the whole day, throughout classes and basketball practice, because he couldn’t be too sure that Billy wasn’t going to punch his face in when they met up in the middle of nowhere. So relief doesn’t really begin to cover it, and he’s pretty damn grateful that it went well— and now, he has no plans on a Tuesday night, no world that’s about to end, and he can just, finally,  _ chill _ .

That is, until the phone rings, interrupting his carefully-crafted silence with its obnoxious shrill tone.

So he sighs, far more dramatically than necessary since no one’s around to hear him, and trudges towards the living room to answer it. He knows it’s not his mom, since she and his dad are on a business trip to Houston (or Manhattan, or Omaha, or the fucking Moon for all he knows) and can’t be bothered to pretend like they love their son when they’re that far away, but at this point, it’s anyone’s guess as to who’s calling him at 8:07pm.

“Hey-o, Steve-o!”

Well, no, he probably should’ve guessed that it’d be Dustin. (Isn’t it always?)

“Hey, kiddo, what’s going on?” he asks, stretching the cord as far as it’ll reach as he settles into his father’s nice leather armchair. No one’s here to judge him if he rests his sock-covered feet on the coffee table, either.

“What’s going on?? What’s going  _ on _ , Steve, is that you skipped out on our plans!!” Dustin’s voice is a little out of breath, a little more high pitched than usual, but Steve can feel the younger kid’s frantic frustration through the phone.

_ Shit _ . He had completely forgotten all about the plans they’d made earlier that week, in his effort to straighten things out with Billy.

(In his head, he stumbles over the thought. The words don’t feel quite right, but he can’t figure out why.)

“Shi- shoot, Dustin, man, I’m so sorry, I totally spaced out,” Steve explains, and it’s not a lie, either. He really did forget, and he’s pretty pissed with himself for that. “Dig Dug tournament at the arcade, I completely zoned out after practice, I was out with Billy.”

Yep, he probably shouldn’t have said that so nonchalantly, because he’s pretty certain Dustin’s stopped breathing on the other end of the phone. 

“You were WHAT?”

Okay, well, at least Dustin’s got enough energy stored to yell at him.

(Frankly, he’s not sure what he expected would happen when he dropped a bomb like that over the phone. It’d be better than in person, though, because he’s pretty certain Dustin would’ve punched him in the shoulder, albeit harmlessly, by now.)

“I was with Billy, come on kid, use those big ears of yours,” Steve jokes back. “We made up, okay? Swore a truce, or whatever, something like that.”

“Steve are you serious? He’s a menace, you know that, he nearly killed you, Max nearly had to chop his balls off for him to leave you alone, what’re you doing trying to make peace—”

He can tell that Dustin’s spiraling (and he’s not sure if he really blames him, Steve probably wouldn’t believe it if he hadn’t been there himself), so he cuts him off.

“Yes, I know, remember, he nearly killed  _ me _ , kinda hard to forget that one, kiddo,” Steve says into the phone before sipping out of his soda again. “I dunno, though, I have enough crazy in my life—” he doesn’t specify, doesn’t need to, since Dustin’s all-too-familiar with the Upside Down and the havoc it’s wreaked on their lives since they first discovered it— “and he’s a cool dude once you get to know him.”

Dustin’s silent, at that.

“Well, okay, he’s a total prick, but he can be funny sometimes too,” Steve amends. “You were hesitant about me at first too, you thought I was just a bit of a jackass for a while, remember?” It’s not entirely true; Dustin latched onto him like a baby duckling pretty early on, but the sentiment is still there. “So, Billy’s kind of like that too. Really rough around the edges, but he’s decent, ok?”

“If you say so, Steve,” Dustin replies. “I don’t trust him, but I trust you, and that counts for something. I’m not gonna be buddy-buddy with him, he was a total shit to Lucas, and he’s a dick to Max, and he beat you up with no fuckin- freaking shame, and no one fucks with the Party and gets away with it. But I’ll try.”

(For  _ you _ , is what Dustin isn’t saying. He’ll try to be more open to the idea of Billy as a person and not as a terror, because Steve wants him to. 

That just comes with the territory, nowadays, now that he’s basically adopted Dustin as his mini-me.

It’s a level of trust in him that no one’s had before, not his parents and certainly not Nancy.

He likes it, though.

And he knows how fucking lucky he is that Dustin’s in his life— no matter how weird the kid is, with that stupid growl thing.)

“Language, kiddo, you know your mom won’t like me too much if you start cursing like me,” Steve teases. 

“Yeah, whatever,  _ Momma Harrington _ ,” Dustin snarks back. “Still pissed at you for ditching me tonight, though. I had to play against  _ Lucas  _ instead, and he spent the whole time fawning over Max like he’s never seen a girl before, c’mon man, get over it already. You owe me, Steve.”

“I do, Dustin, this weekend I’ll actually sit down and join the campaign if that makes it up to you, okay?” Steve wonders if he shouldn’t be giving up his Saturday plans so easily, but really— he didn’t have any to begin with, now that he’s not the center of the school’s popularity sphere anymore.

“Shit, really?”

“Dustin, watch your mouth, and yes,” Steve adds. “I’ll be there.”

“Sweet!” Dustin yells back, and there’s a commotion in the background. “Ah, fuc- frick, man, I knocked over a lamp, I gotta go.”

Steve shakes his head, but he’s laughing all the same. “Alright, kiddo, catch ya later.”

With that, he hangs up the phone, and finally,  _ finally _ allows the tension in his body to fade. No one else will call, not tonight (he certainly hopes not, at least), so he’s got the next few hours to relax, hopefully get some sleep, and then suffer through three more days of school until the weekend.

Surprisingly (well, it’s actually not too surprising, really, given his conversation minutes earlier with Dustin, but he doesn’t expect it to happen so quickly), his thoughts turn to the man of the afternoon, Billy Hargrove. 

Because really, what the fuck? (Steve almost admonishes himself for the language, but then again he’s almost an adult, and it was also just in his own head, not out loud.)

He’s acting chill about the whole thing, the whole you-beat-me-up-and-now-we-go-get-fries thing, and though he wouldn’t say it to Dustin, he’s still not entirely sure why.

There’s just this  _ something _ , that makes him want to be friends with Billy.

Maybe it’s the look in his eyes, the one he gets when he’s reading a book in class or when he thinks no one’s paying attention to him, that says “I’m not a bad guy, I’m just fucked up.”

And Steve  _ gets  _ that, he does. Because he was the kiss-them-and-leave-them guy too, the one that was the center of attention at every party and never gave  _ anything _ a second thought. Then, Barb Holland died in his pool, his girlfriend left him, his girlfriend nearly  _ shot  _ him, and he discovered the Upside Down and how much he liked caring about people.

After that, it became a whole hell of a lot easier to care about things.

He thinks he sees that in Billy, that the teen’s just so screwed up inside that he uses his fists instead of his words. And it doesn’t make up for it, certainly, for the subtle racism and the not-so-subtle bullying, but it explains it, and that’s almost good enough for him.

(There’s the other thing, too.

The little part of Steve that lights up every time Billy calls him “pretty boy,” like it’s some sort of secret that makes him glow inside.

He’s less ready to unpack that, but it’s there, under the surface.)

Just maybe, he and Billy can be friends. Because that’s what Steve wants, really— the world’s full of enough fucked-up shit, it can’t hurt to have one more friend around, especially one that’s so good with his fists (as long as they’re not aimed at him, at least). 

Steve and Billy are the same, really. And maybe that’s what made them butt heads so surely, like it was second nature. Too alike for their own damn good.

If that’s true, then maybe— just like Steve— there’s hope for Billy Hargrove yet.

So Steve falls asleep on the couch in his living room, a light still beaming in from the kitchen because he’s just not ready to sleep without it, or go upstairs to his own bed where he might not hear the monsters sneaking in.

He falls asleep, and for once, he has dreams instead of nightmares.

The dreams, though, aren’t exactly expected either.

~

_ It’s bright, and warm, and he thinks that he’s near a beach somewhere because he can smell the slightly acidic salt water through the open window next to him. He’s on a bed, and it’s incredibly soft, but not covered with the tacky plaid bedspread of his own. _

_ And— he’s not alone.  _

_ When he rolls over, rubbing the sleepiness out of his eyes, there’s another body next to him, but it’s not the lithe form of Nancy Wheeler like he’s come to expect from dreams like this. _

_ Instead, where he expected pale skin and thin, gentle limbs, he sees sun-kissed skin and taut, sinewy muscles that he’s compelled to just reach out and  _ touch _. It’s a dream, though, no one would fault him for that. _

_ So he does, and when he sees the face that those enticing muscles are attached to, he’s surprised, and yet not at all. _

_ Because of course, of  _ course _ , it’s fucking Billy Hargrove lying next to him, with a grin to match the Cheshire Cat and even more blinding. _

_ “Hey, pretty boy,” Bill’s voice drawls, tainted with the coarseness of a long night’s sleep and cigarettes, but it sends chills down his spine all the same. “Mornin’, how’d you sleep?” _

_ Nope.  _ Nope _. Not even dream-Steve knows what to say to that. _

_ He says nothing, and blinks, wondering if the image will change when he re-opens his eyes. _

_ It doesn’t, though. That’d be too easy. _

_ Dream-Billy scoots even closer to him, and he wants to slip away, wants to disappear and wake up and pretend like none of this ever happened, even if it’s just within his own subconscious, but he doesn’t. _

_ No, he moves closer, and does the one thing he’s wanted to do once he has realized who was in this imaginary bed next to him, the one thing he knows he shouldn’t. _

_ Steve extends out one arm, and touches, feeling the supple curve of Billy’s tattooed bicep under his light graze. _

If this is a dream, aren’t I supposed to not be able to feel things?  _ He wonders to himself, but then again— it’s a dream. No one’s going to answer him, are they? _

_ Billy’s skin feels warm and inviting under his fingertips, and as he starts to move his hand away, the teen’s arms are suddenly wrapping around him and pulling him into his embrace, quickly but gentle all at once, and it’s not what he expected but you won’t see him saying no to it, either. _

_ Because, in Billy’s arms, the sound of waves crashing against a shore somewhere just out of sight, and surrounded by a warmth that seems to light within his ribcage and fan out towards every limb, ever nerve ending twinkling like the Christmas lights strung up in the Byers’ house— _

_ Steve doesn’t understand the feeling, but he loves it all the same. _

~

And then Steve wakes up, jolted by the motion of his body nearly falling off the narrow couch. He’s sweating, and he’s not sure exactly what he’s feeling, but his watch tells him that it’s just past 6am, and there’s no real point in trying to go back to sleep now, is there?

(Not like his dreams would be the same if he fell asleep again, though. He’s not sure if that’s preferable or not.

Well, that dream certainly didn’t make him sure of anything.

Except for the fact that fuck, he  _ really  _ needs a shower.)

So he wipes off his brow, straightens his clothes— did he really fall asleep in jeans, ugh, gross— and heads up to his room to hop in the shower, wash his hair, and hopefully, scrub away the feeling of Billy freakin’ Hargrove’s touch.

(He’s not sure, though, if he wants to.)

But he showers, styles his hair, makes breakfast, and gets ready for school all the same. Keeps himself busy, because he already agreed to drive Dustin, Lucas, and Max to the middle school today, and if he’s scatter-brained around them, they’ll harp on it with no end in sight.

And he  _ really _ doesn’t need that right now. Not when even he can’t parse out what’s swirling around in his head. Three middle-schoolers aren’t going to make that any easier, especially since Dustin’s already on the warpath about Billy to begin with.

He grabs his backpack, pours one last cup of coffee (it’s his third this morning, but his sleep was all sorts of fucked up by that dream, don’t judge) into a thermos for when he gets to school, and hops in the Beemer to head towards Dustin’s house. He usually grabs Lucas first, but he can tell Dustin’s feeling a little neglected as of late, so he stops there first.

When he arrives, Dustin’s already sitting on the front steps, waiting. He hears Steve’s car pull up and looks up with a smile that tells Steve, yep, he’s been forgiven for ditching him last night.

“Steve! Mom said I can get a new edition of the comic book the demo-dog chewed last month if I do all my chores for the next week! Isn’t that awesome?” Dustin exclaims as he hops in the front seat. He’s probably not tall enough to ride there yet, but Steve keeps his mouth shut and smiles along.

“That’s awesome, man. Alright, we’re grabbing Lucas and Max too, so keep your bag up front with you, got it?” Dustin nods at Steve’s suggestion, tucking his backpack under his feet as he talks animatedly, Steve already driving towards the Sinclair house.

It’s nice, driving Dustin and a few of the other Party members to school. He doesn’t do it every day, but it’s more frequent lately, and since he’s always isolated in his own house, it’s comforting to feel like he has a purpose.

(Even if that purpose is just driving a gang of middle schoolers around, it’s  _ something _ .)

Lucas is next, and he shouts something at his younger sister, Erica, before shutting his front door behind him and walking towards the car.

“Hey Dustin, Steve, thanks for the ride!” he says, choosing the seat behind Steve’s driver side. “Let’s go before Erica tries to ride with us— she’s been annoying as hell lately.”

“Language, Sinclair,” Steve admonishes, but he (and the two pre-teen boys) knows he’s just teasing. Regardless, he drives away quickly, headed towards the slightly rougher side of town where Max lives.

( _ And where Billy lives _ , his brain reminds him unnecessarily. As if he could forget; his thoughts have been bouncing around at the idea of seeing Billy this morning after that weird-as-hell dream ever since he woke up and remembered he had agreed to drive Max to school today.)

They reach the Hargrove house in a matter of minutes, but Max is nowhere to be seen, and Steve can hear noises that sound a whole lot like a fight coming from the house through the slightly-cracked front door.

“Stay here, guys,” he tosses over his shoulder to Lucas and Dustin as he hops out of the Beemer; the two pre-teens protest, and he can sense that Lucas wants to join him as he approaches the front door, but he ignores it. It’s not often that he has to go up to the kids’ houses when he picks them up for school— they’re usually waiting for his arrival, actually— but there’s not a lot of consistency with Max’s family, anyway.

He’s at the door before he can actually stop to process what he’s doing, raising a hand to knock.

The noises from inside the house stop, and the door swings open.

“Can I help you?” a disgruntled voice calls, and Steve comes face to face with the man himself, Neil Hargrove. They’ve met once or twice, never long enough to leave much of an impression, but Steve is smart enough to know that this man is  _ dangerous _ . (Max’s words certainly imply it, if the bruises on Billy’s neck and arms don’t seal the deal. He knows those didn’t come from a basketball game.)

“Hi, Mr. Hargrove,” Steve says, the picture of a polite and proper Hawkins teenager. “I’m just here to pick up Maxine for school.”

As if summoned by her name, Max appears, and Billy’s not far behind her.

_ Fuck. _

Steve's mouth hangs open, unintentionally, but it’s a little hard to maintain his composure when Billy, who he saw less than 12 hours ago, is now sporting a steadily-blooming black eye and a scrape on his right cheek.

He snaps himself out of it, though, and forces himself to smile at Mr. Hargrove. (He knows exactly what’s been going on, what the arguing he overheard must have been about— well no, not specifics, but it’s what resulted in Billy’s injuries, that much he’s certain about— but he knows he can’t exactly react to it. Not here. Not now.)

“Yes, yes, of course,” Neil responds. “Thank you, son.” (Steve really hates the way that word sounds from his mouth.) “Maxine, go to school,  _ now _ .”

And she does, hurriedly moving out of the way of her step-father and shutting the door behind her. The last thing Steve sees is Neil turning back towards Billy, and a look of fear he’s never quite seen before flashing in the teen’s eyes.

He hopes he conveys something in his own, something like compassion or concern, but Billy barely even seemed to notice him, was all too preoccupied by his father’s stern gaze. 

“Sorry, Steve,” Maxine huffs out. “It was, uh, a rough morning.”

“Don’t worry about it, kid,” he says, hoping his voice is as gentle as it can be despite his shaking hands. “You ok?”

She nods and climbs into the car, immediately launching into a fast-paced discussion with the two boys waiting for her. As Steve puts his car in reverse, looking in his mirrors, he sees Lucas slip his hand into hers, and he smiles softly at the thought. Max has a rough life, that’s for certain, but it’s nice to see Lucas taking care of her.

He drives away, but he can’t stop the thoughts from forming in his brain, about how much he wishes someone was taking care of Billy, too.

(And how much he wishes that  _ someone _ was him.)

This “new normal” isn’t what he expected, that’s for sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listening for this chapter:
> 
> only the lonely survive - marianas trench  
> say anything - girl in red  
> undone in sorrow - crooked still


	3. chapter three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sometimes, there's merit in doing the unexpected.
> 
> (except sometimes, it's also the catalyst for universal implosions.)
> 
> steve wonders which one this will be.
> 
> (song of the chapter: need 2 ~ pinegrove)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay, i wish this came out sooner! i'm honestly enjoying the flow of this, even though it's not as much of a slow burn as i had intended. i hope you like it too. it's not exactly the traditional path to a harringrove fic, but it's mine, and i'm proud of it.
> 
> as always, i love comments :)

To the surprise of no one, himself in particular, Billy Hargrove drives his Camaro into the Hawkins High parking lot roughly half an hour late, in the middle of his Wednesday morning study hall. He knows he’ll get a tardy, again (second time in as many weeks), but frankly, he’s more preoccupied by the pounding in his head and the bruise forming on his brow bone (barely missing his eye, but he’s grateful for that) to care all that much about the consequences.

But as he parks his car, blaring music cut off abruptly as he turns off the ignition, he sees that he’s not just surrounded by the cars of his peers. The lot’s not empty, not like it usually is at this hour.

Instead, as he raises his head to look around, he sees Steve, leaning surreptitiously against the side of his own car, parked only two spaces away.  _ Fuck _ , he thinks. He’s not sure if Steve’s been waiting there to admonish him, or comfort him, or if he was simply out for a smoke and their paths crossed accidentally, but Billy’s already in a bad mood and he can’t trust himself not to bite back at Steve if the boy tries to start something with him.

Almost instantly, the thoughts start swirling around in his head, making him wonder— what did Steve see? What did he hear? Is he going to bring it up, or ignore it? Which would be better, and which would be worse?

(It’s almost too much to bear, the worrying; Billy’s not fond of it, or the tugging feeling at his brain that hopes— wishes, wonders, whatever— that Steve is there as a kindness, not as the attack that he himself dreads is looming around every corner.

That’s relying on a lot, though. On blind faith, and trust in the idea that Steve was genuine in his “peace offering,” the truce that they formed over cold fries and sweating bottles of soda.

He’s not too fond of blind faith, though— he’s been burned too many times before.)

Billy steps out of his car, slamming the door behind himself for good measure, and though he contemplates ignoring Steve entirely and taking his chances in study hall, something holds him back, and he can’t help but smile (though it hurts a bit, too, stinging in the cut on his lip) when he calls his name.

“Yo, Billy?” Steve’s voice reaches him, and his words are simple, but Billy rolls his eyes all the same at his use of casual slang that sounds anything but comfortable in his prim-and-proper mouth though.

(Billy wonders, with significantly less anxiety than his other worries, what exactly that rich-boy mouth might feel like pressed under his own.)

“Ah, King Steve, to what do I owe the honor of your acknowledgement?” Billy responds, but he walks towards him all the same. 

“Get in, asshole, we’re playing hooky today.”

And damn, if Steve isn’t still full of surprises despite all the moments they’ve shared, when Billy’s been so nearly certain that there are monsters (the spooky, larger-than-life ones, not just fathers who are eager to use their fists) that he’s been itching to tell him about. There’s still an air of mystery, and Billy hates how much it excites him.

So he shoulders his bag, shakes off the nagging doubts that can’t seem to stop from sprouting in his brain, and he gets in the damn car.

If nothing else, he’s going to let himself enjoy this, a morning spent in a gorgeous— if not stereotypically snooty— car with his almost-friend. 

There are, certainly, worse ways to spend a Wednesday in Hawkins.

~

It’s silent, in the car, save for the sound of both boys’ breathing as Steve drives away from Hawkins High, and soon the school is all but a small speck in his rearview mirror. Billy sits in the passenger seat next to him, and for a muscular teen, he’s got himself folded up pretty tightly in his seat as he leans against the car door. 

Almost as if he’s trying to make himself smaller.

Almost as if he’s trying to disappear from sight completely.

“I want to ask if you’re okay, Hargrove, but I’m not sure if you’re going to punch me or burst into tears,” Steve offers, and almost kicks himself for it immediately. It’s probably not the right choice of words, but then again, what is? He’s not entirely sure what he drove up to this morning, other than the fact that Billy and his father (if Neil Hargrove even deserves that title, honestly) were arguing about something, and it didn’t exactly sound like Billy was winning.

Steve’s no stranger to fights, verbal or physical, and he’s had his own share of arguments with his own parents— in the rare occurrences that they’re home, that is. They’ve bickered about everything from Steve’s college plans or lack thereof, to his relationship with Nancy, to the too-often occurrences of them forgetting his birthday, or graduation, or his first basketball game. And Steve’s left those fights angry, or upset, or disappointed with the way things are, the way things have to be.

But he’s never been afraid, not when fighting with his parents. Not like Billy looked this morning.

“Man, fuck you, Harrington, I’m not gonna cry like a bitch in your car if that’s what you’re thinking,” Billy responds, but his voice cracking over Steve’s last name makes it hard to believe that. “Wanna tell me why we’re skipping school? Not that I mind, but you know, people might  _ talk _ .”

Amid the bruises, and the dried blood leaving a trace on his upper lip, he’s still the Billy that Steve’s used to. Biting wit and all. Steve’s becoming fond of it, though he’s not sure he knows how to put that into words.

“Uh, it’s ok if you do, man,” Steve says, patting the dashboard in lieu of reaching over and touching Billy’s knee. Maybe that’s what he’d  _ rather  _ be doing, but it doesn’t quite feel right in the moment. “Dolly here has seen plenty of my tears, and if you keep your mouth shut about it, I might even admit that she’s borne witness to some of mine, too.” He doesn’t respond to Billy’s other insinuation, that people will wonder where they are and what they’re doing together, and he’s certain that Billy notices.

Billy looks over at him, and their eyes meet for what feels like the first time, at least since early this morning. Steve’s not sure if he can unpack the look in the teen’s eyes. Or if he wants to.

“Dolly, huh? You have this gorgeous Beemer, and any name to choose from, and you go with  _ Dolly _ ?” Billy’s almost laughing now, as he says it, but Steve’s not blind, and he sees how he grimaces at the pain from it bubbling through his voice.

“Listen, Billy, if you’re going to make fun of Dolly, and the country icon from which her name is derived, you can get out of my damn car and walk back to school,” Steve jokes back. “But I don’t think you’re gonna do that.”

Keeping one hand on the wheel, Steve turns a dial on his car’s audio system, allowing the radio to crinkle to life. It’s not Dolly Parton, but it’s a female singer all the same, some pop or rock shit that Steve seems to love, judging by the way his head starts to bob along.

And Billy considers making fun of him, some sort of jibe at the boy’s expense for his music taste, but he can’t help from smiling, too. It’s better than the alternative, after all— he’s spent enough afternoons carting Max around to have learned all the words ( _ not by choice _ , he adds in his head) to nearly every song in Madonna’s discography.

Instead, he reaches out to turn the music down, only slightly, just so he can hear his own voice as he talks to Steve. “So, uh, Mr. School-Is-Optional-Today-Because-I-Said-So, where exactly are you taking me?”

“Home.”

Steve’s response is short, sweet, and Billy wants to unpack it immediately, but instead he’s overcome by a warmth that he can’t quite explain. So, in lieu of that, he settles on the only reaction he can muster, punching Steve lightly in the shoulder.

“You better not…” he trails off, panicking for a moment at the thought of Steve dragging him back to the Hargrove house. It’s not the  _ worst  _ idea in the world, since he knows Neil’s at work by now (he watched him leave, carefully avoiding any unnecessary contact as he held a frozen bag of peas to the bruising on his hip in his bedroom), and Susan’s probably off shopping or doing whatever-the-fuck-else she does when he and Max are at school. 

“No, you big idiot,  _ my  _ home,” Steve says, and somehow, that’s that on the matter. Because without another word, he turns up the music, and begins to sing along. 

“What’s love got to do, got to do with it?

What’s love but a second-hand emotion?

What’s love got to do, got to do with it?”

~

A few minutes later, in a neighborhood that Billy’s not too familiar with it— it’s markedly out of the price range of the Hargroves, that’s for sure, and it’s the kind of place that he feels perpetually under-dressed for— Steve slows down and turns into a driveway of a house that is, somehow, exactly what Billy expected when he thought about where Steve might live.

(Not that he’s, you know, thought about it often. Thought about Steve’s house, his parents, his  _ bedroom _ , what the boy might look like right before he goes to bed or when he wakes up in the morning, sleepy and hair already somehow styled to perfection.

Not that Billy’s thought about it at all, especially not before he goes to bed too, trying to block out the sounds of Neil and Susan fighting in the next room over.)

He follows Steve’s lead, though, shaking away thoughts that he hopes aren’t being telegraphed on his face. He gets out of the car, grabbing his bag, and trails behind Steve up to the front door, which the other boy unlocks quickly before stepping inside.

“Welcome to Casa de Harrington,” Steve jokes, toeing off his sneakers in the foyer. ( _ Shit, Steve’s house is fancy enough to have a room that people call a  _ foyer _ , isn’t it,  _ Billy thinks to himself.)

“Think you got your Spanish wrong there, pretty boy, but I’ll let it slide,” Billy quips back, taking off his shoes as well and noticing the marked difference between Steve’s pristine white pair and his own scuffed up ones.

Steve walks into the kitchen, and as Billy follows, he can’t help but feel like a puppy dog, or a little kid, just accompanying Steve around this space in which he does not feel remotely comfortable. It’s lessened a little by Steve’s constant smile, but barely.

“C’mon, man, let’s have a drink,” Steve says, grabbing two beers from the fridge.

That, at least, makes Billy feel a little bit less awkward. This is his territory, the delinquent actions and uncouth decision-making of his youth, and though it’s Steve’s house, Billy’s the expert here.

“Drinking at 8am,” he laughs. “Damn, Steve, have I corrupted you already?”

( _ Because I want to _ , is what he wants to say.  _ God, I’d love to corrupt you as much as you’d let me _ .)

“Something like that,” Steve responds, popping the tops off the two bottles and handing one to BIlly, who stands awkwardly in the entryway of the room. “Just feels like that kind of day.”

“Oh, yeah, did your daddy-o rough you up for back-talking him too, this morning?” Billy sneers, and regrets it immediately by the look on Steve’s face.

The teen frowns, beer bottle only inches from his lips. “You know, jackass, you don’t have the monopoly on bad fucking days. I mean, you’ve got the market cornered, but leave a little bit for the rest of us, okay?”

Billy sips from his own bottle, grimacing a bit as it stings in the cut on his mouth. “Shit, sorry. Lemme hop into therapist mode for a minute, if that’s better. So, Mr. Harrington, tell me what’s got ya down?”

It’s joking, sure, but Billy does genuinely care too, and that scares him a little.

(Okay, kind of a lot.)

“No, I was being a dick to you for no reason, my day’s been pretty okay actually. I mean I had a weird-as-hell dream this morning, and I didn’t  _ love _ pulling up to your house this morning and accidentally walking into a domestic dispute that I probably should’ve called Hopper about, but seriously, I’m fine. Just wasn’t feeling school today, and I figured you could use the break too.”

Steve’s not lying, but he’s definitely downplaying the concern he’s felt for Billy since this morning. (And how uncomfortable that dream made him feel, too, especially given the fact that Billy’s now sitting on his couch, only one set of stairs from his bedroom where he had a  _ questionable _ dream about him only hours earlier.)

The awkwardness from a minute earlier is pushed away, though, as the two continue to drink. Billy’s still surprised by Steve’s candor, but he’s enjoying it. And he can’t help but pry.

“Tell me about the dream,” he all but orders.

“Uh, no, nope, sorry, gotta be a level-three friend to unlock that level of my psyche, Hargrove.”

“Tell me?” Billy asks this time, nicer. 

(Nice is a weird look on him.)

“Seriously, it was, uh, nothing, just one of those dreams that you wake up from feeling all wacky,” Steve says, hoping that’ll be enough to shut Billy up about it.

And surprisingly, it is.

Billy continues drinking, and he’s nearly halfway done with his beer by the time Steve takes a few sips. They’re both very pointedly avoiding the subject at hand, the question that Billy refused to answer in Steve’s car earlier.

_ How are you? _

(As if there were enough words in the English language to explain the years of abuse and intentional avoidance Billy’s experienced in his own home. As if he’d even try.)

Minutes pass, and Steve places his drink on the coffee table. He’s not opposed to getting day-drunk on a Wednesday, but he doesn’t exactly trust himself not to say anything particularly dumb at the moment. Not that he needs alcohol for that, either.

“I know you, uh, probably don’t want to talk about it—”

“Pretty wise there, pretty boy, for figuring that out.”

“Oh, shut up, Billy, there’s no girls to impress with that snarky wit of yours here,” Steve admonishes, with a smile. (And the slight hope that Billy’s trying to impress him, too, though he doesn’t want to entertain that.)

“You’re right, though, I don’t want to talk about it,” Billy says, throwing him a metaphorical bone as he steals his beer— his own sits on the table, already empty— and takes a gulp.

“So, uh, what  _ do  _ you want to talk about?” Steve tries again. He wants to make a joke about Billy and him sharing a beer, but he’s not sure how to without being impossibly awkward. Not like it’s stopped him before.

Billy smiles, and it’s genuine this time. “Wanna smoke a joint?”

~

It doesn’t really shock Steve, not entirely, that Billy brings weed to school. After all, he’s pretty certain he’s seen him with a joint in his hand outside the gym, instead of a traditional pack of cigarettes, but it’s not exactly the kind of thing you bring up in casual conversation with the guy who beat your face in that one time.

(Or the guy who you’re developing an astronomically-embarrassing crush on, either, especially not when they’re one and the same.)

Instead, he takes a hit off the joint and tries not to cough up a long. It’s not his first time smoking pot, after all, but it’s not exactly a regular occurence. He doesn’t want to look like a total loser, though— he can do that all on his own.

Thoughts of their earlier, precariously-balanced conversation have faded, accompanied by the comfortable haze of smoke surrounding them as they lie on their backs on the floor, inches apart.

Billy wants to pretend that it’s so they don’t have to lean over to pass the joint between them, but he knows it’s because he likes the feeling of Steve’s shoulder leaning against his. It’s easy, though, to keep that quiet; he’s all too good at faking calm, even when high.

And high he is, though it seems like Steve’s taking the brunt of it, as he’s rambling about the colors in the painting on the wall and how it makes him think of summer, or the beach, or his mother, or something else entirely. Billy’s not sure what the hell Steve’s trying to say, but he likes the sound of his voice nonetheless.

“You good over there, Harrington?” he laughs, taking a heavy inhale on the joint as he hears Steve chuckle alongside him. It’s not the best weed he’s ever had, or the worst either, but it’s made far better by the company he’s keeping.

“I’m, uh, really stoned, Bills,” Steve responds, propping himself on his elbow to look down at Billy’s face. Steve’s eyes are ridiculously red, and a little puffy, but he’s grinning from ear to ear. It’s hard to believe it’s only around 10am, with the debauchery they’ve both gotten up to in just a few short hours. 

“Yeah, pretty boy, I kinda figured that out, what with the eyes and the perpetual giggling,” Billy drawls, and he can’t help but let his eyes drift to Steve’s lips above him. There are a few inches between them, sure, but Billy’s itching to close the distance.

Turns out, he doesn’t have to fight that instinct after all.

Because, mere moments later, Steve leans down and brushes his lips against Billy’s. It’s quick, as if you could miss it by blinking. But it happened.

_ Holy shit _ .

Yep, Billy’s brain has shorted out from that. His thoughts are thoroughly empty, devoid of anything useful to contribute, and captivated by the overwhelming desire to replay it in his head, or, if the universe wants to be particularly kind to him, do it again.

Steve, meanwhile, seems to be having a slight bit of a mental breakdown.

He’s pulled away, and sat up entirely, arms wrapped around his legs and shaking slightly. Billy can hear him mumbling something, and it’s starting to look like Steve’s red eyes might not just be from the effects of the weed after all, as it appears tears are starting to form.

And Billy’s stoned, but he’s not an idiot, and he knows the signs of a panic attack. (He’s had far too many of his own, and even helped Max through a particularly gnarly one in the brief periods when they aren’t hating each other.)

“Hey, Stevie, breathe, okay?” Billy can’t quite believe his life, right now. He just got kissed, and now Steve’s having an anxiety attack, and he’s blitzed out of his own brain so he’s not exactly thinking rationally, but then again, neither one of them are at the moment.

He wraps an arm around Steve, almost in a hug, and wishes it was in different circumstances. They’ve never hugged each other before— in fact, they seem to avoid physical contact in its entirety, so this is somewhat out of the depths of his experiences here.

“Shh, shh,” he’s saying to soothe him, and luckily ( _ thank fuck,  _ Billy thinks to himself) it starts to work, at least given the sound of Steve’s slightly slowing breathing. “It’s okay, man.”

(It’s not okay, probably, since Steve’s having a panic attack simply from kissing Billy. That’s not exactly the reaction he was hoping for— but he knows how hope seems to bite him in the ass on the regular, so he’s not entirely surprised.)

It takes a few more minutes for Steve’s breathing to even out, and he won’t meet Billy’s gaze, but things begin to settle. Billy’s high is wearing off, at least, and he hopes Steve’s is as well. Panic attacks  _ suck _ in general, but they suck way worse when you’re stoned.

Once he can feel Steve beginning to calm, Billy pulls away slightly, trying to give him some distance. He tries, at least, since as he does so, Steve reaches for his hand.

“Stay.”

So he does, even though he’s not too certain what it means.

“Not to sound like a broken record, or to steal your line, buddy, but um— are you okay, Steve?” Billy asks. He has a hundred more questions he wants to ask, but he doesn’t. It just doesn’t feel like the time.

“Shit, Billy, I’m so fucking sorry, you should, uh, you should probably go, we don’t need to talk about it, I’m just really fuckin’ high, my bad,” Steve starts to ramble, and Billy’s heart drops a little. He knew it was likely that it was just a stoned decision, but it still hurts to hear.

He has to ask, though.

“Steve, Steve,” Billy says, trying to soothe him. It’s not exactly his forte, though that’s not a surprise to anyone, much less himself or Steve. “It’s okay. But, um— and if this goes badly, we’ll blame it on the pot and never speak to each other again— did you just do it because you were stoned?” He tries to keep his tone steady, but it’s a little hard, what with the everything that’s happened in the past few minutes.

“Yes! Wait, no,” Steve stops himself. “I don’t… I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, pretty boy, you kind of gotta choose between yes or no here, there’s only two options,” Billy suggests. He’s not sure, exactly, what he’s hoping Steve will say. This is all new territory, and Billy hates feeling like the outsider.

“Are you gonna punch me if I say no?” Steve asks, and his voice is finally starting to sound steady. “Like, if I say I’ve wanted to kiss you ever since we got to my house, or since yesterday, or for the past two weeks— are you gonna beat the shit out of me again?”

Well, he knew he had to expect that, given their history, but it still hurts. It hurts that Steve sees him as the person he’s been so afraid to become.

“Steve…” he says, voice weak.

There’s nothing to say, and somehow everything to say.

So, he says  _ fuck it  _ to the rules, and looks Steve straight in the eyes. 

Hopes he conveys some sort of comfort, or appreciation, or something.

And he kisses him again.

~

It’s different, after that.

Because it means a lot of things; for example— he doesn’t have to pretend to brush his hand against Steve’s, or to smile when the boy makes jokes that no one would find funny but him, or that the kiss was an impossible mistake.

When he kisses him for the first time— the first of his own choosing, at least— it feels like fire.

That’s not to say, of course, that it’s aggressive. Somehow, for all his intensity, Billy is a gentle kisser, at least with Steve. 

So when he pulls away, still concerned that Steve might explode into tears or anger, he’s nervous, at least a little, but he’s pleasantly surprised.

There Steve is, beaming back at him.

“Uh, okay,” Steve says, and his voice shakes again, but not out of fear. It’s joyous, the sound of his voice to Billy’s ears. “So uh, that’s new.”

“Pretty boy, haven’t you ever heard that story about kindergarten boys bullying the girls they like?” Billy jokes, enjoying the feeling of Steve’s resting in his.

“Billy, with hair like that, don’t you think  _ you  _ might be the girl in this relationship?”

And damn, if Billy needed some sort of endorsement that he’s been falling for the right guy, there it was. Anyone who can make fun of him, kiss him, and make him put up with shitty music is worth keeping around.

“But, uh, we should talk about this,” Steve adds.

( _ Bubble officially burst _ , Billy thinks. Well, nothing can be truly perfect; of course, he had to be crushing on a talker.)

“Alright, shoot,” Billy responds, but he’s not sure he wants to hear it. Talking never ends well.

“I, uh, wanted to kiss you, and then panicked that you were going to punch me, and then I just sort of… lost it?” Steve says. (Well, Billy probably wouldn’t have been so worried about Steve if he had known he was just going to summarize the events of the prior minutes.)

“You wanted to kiss me?”

“No offense, Bills, but you just kissed me back, so I think that makes two of us,” Steve smiles. “I just… you kept calling me pretty boy, and you look like  _ that _ , and I couldn’t help it.”

Billy blushes at that, but he’d never admit it to anyone other than Steve. “Well, I call ‘em like I see ‘em, Steve, and you’re damn pretty,” he says, and Steve tightens his grip on his hand. “Wait, hold up. I look like what?”

“Um, Bills, you look like a sexed-up porn star, bruise and split lip and all,” Steve says, eyes poised on the open collar of Billy’s shirt and his unkempt hair.

“Shut up, pretty boy,” he bites back.

“Make me.”

So, he does.

~

They don’t kiss much more, and whether that’s because the floor is thoroughly uncomfortable for making out or if they’re both hungry for lunch, or a combination of the two, they’re not sure. They pick themselves up off the floor and move into the kitchen, enjoying a meal of cold pizza and even colder beer; it’s after noon by now, after all, so it’s at least somewhat acceptable.

After eating, they settle back onto the couch, and Steve flicks on the television as they numb their brains with mindless mid-day television. Their hands are intertwined between them, and Steve soon curls up into Billy’s side as the hours pass by. 

Before he knows what to do about it, Steve’s asleep against him. He doesn’t often like this, people sleeping on him— or, frankly, anything couple-y like this— but Steve’s, somehow, an exception.

Plus, it gives him a little bit of space to think about what the morning has brought him, uninterrupted by the desire to kiss Steve silly, since he’s otherwise distracted by the whole taking-a-nap thing.

Somehow, this is his life. He’s skipping school, getting stoned and a little bit tipsy in the middle of a Wednesday, and he just got kissed by the guy who he beat up and then developed a crush on.

And somehow, Steve seems to be crushing on him too, so that’s pretty promising. He didn’t expect it at all— didn’t allow himself to hope for it by any means— but it’s one of those things that his mind has been drawn to, more than anything else.

Now, it’s real, or as real as anything feels in this damn podunk town. Steve kissed him. Steve likes him. And they’re still together, in his massively large living room, even after that. He’s not sure what it means, or if it means much of anything (other than his wildest and unfathomable dreams coming true), but he’ll take what he can get. It’s nice, and that’s as good as it gets in Billy’s world.

Billy knows he has to leave soon, if he wants to be on time to pick Max up from school. Though he lucked out by not having to drive her there this morning, he knows he can’t avoid his responsibilities forever, not with the thoughts of Neil’s punishments looming in his head, though. 

He can’t help but wonder, though, what it’d be like to play hooky forever, to spend the rest of his good-for-nothing life here, with Steve by his side and the television echoing softly in the room around him. To blow off the rest of the world, and throw up a middle finger to the consequences and chaos waiting for him outside. 

It sounds impossible— less so than before, though, before Steve kissed him and made him feel like he was flying. Actually, it sounds pretty damn perfect, too.


End file.
